


Five Things That Happened at Cambridge

by kitestringer



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Angst, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Series, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7193333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitestringer/pseuds/kitestringer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I am your true friend. Then, now, and always.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things That Happened at Cambridge

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Maverick and Pollitt for encouragement and helpful discussions. After a long time away, it’s nice to know I can still count on you two for all my fangirl needs!
> 
> The lines of poetry quoted by Victor are from _The Destruction of Sennacherib,_ by Lord Byron.

1\. 

Henry watches Victor lazily extend a hand, reaching for the pipe. They had begun the evening seated cross-legged on cushions on either side of the hookah, but Victor is now laid out across the floor, head resting on an outstretched arm, eyes heavy-lidded and red-rimmed with fatigue.

Henry, regrettably, is not even slightly drowsy. He knows he is unlikely to sleep tonight. He hands Victor the pipe, and Victor inhales from it deeply. A couple hours earlier, Henry’s rage had been a hammer battering mercilessly at his rib cage. But with each name spoken, each death foretold by Henry and savored by Victor, the pain lessens by a small increment.

“And Hathaway, that unbearably stupid prig?” Victor asks, smoke curling from his mouth as he speaks. “What unfortunate fate shall befall him?”

Hathaway is last on the current list — and the worst. The vile caricature of Henry’s mother that graced the wall of the anatomy classroom earlier that day had been his handiwork. Henry had considered and discarded a number of possibilities before deciding on one that he thinks nearly sufficient.

“His artwork, steeped in concentrated hydrochloric acid, shoved down his throat with a long pair of forceps, one small piece at a time.”

Victor opens his eyes and appraises him. “I wonder how long might that take to kill him?”

“Hours? Days? Won’t it be interesting to find out?”

“Truly, your wrath is terrible to behold, Harry.” Victor smiles, and his eyes fall shut once more. “ _For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed..._ ”

 _Harry._ It’s a name only Victor ever calls him. A name of familiarity and affection, a name a friend uses. He never heard himself called it until he knew Victor. Henry gently pulls the mouthpiece free of Victor’s hand and takes a deep drag, the sweet smoke flooding his lungs. His head swims pleasantly. He watches Victor’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and slows his own breathing to match his. In his mind, he, too, lies on the floor, pressed close behind him, feeling his warmth, and the poison of his rage drains from his body with each shared breath.

 

2\. 

Henry feels a hard tug at his hair. “Tear yourself away from that infernal thing for a moment. I need your help.”

Henry looks up to see Victor standing over him. “First, have a look.” He stands, and Victor sighs impatiently but takes his place at the microscope.

“And what exactly am I looking at?”

“You tell me, old man.”

Victor glances up at him in annoyance. ‘Yes, _Doctor._ ” He returns to the microscope, adjusting the focus. “Brain tissue, obviously. But it’s…” Silence for a few moments. “What is this? What stain did you use?”

“Potassium dichromate and silver nitrate, among other things. It’s called the ‘black reaction’.” Henry cannot stop himself from grinning. “Golgi at Pavia developed it, but I’ve made my own improvements. It takes days to complete, but -- well, you can see the result for yourself.”

“Astonishing,” Victor whispers. “Every detail so clearly demarcated…”

“I know I can improve on it further.” Henry clasps Victor’s shoulder as he stands to face him. “I’ve been using this to examine the degradation of the nervous tissue after death--”

The sound of glass clattering almost musically to the floor interrupts him, and Henry’s body goes cold. The slides he spent the better part of a week preparing lie scattered on the floor. “Oh, so sorry!” It’s Hathaway’s friend, Thornton. He takes a step forward and crushes half the slides beneath his shoe. “Blast, there I go again. Sincerest apologies.”

Henry’s fist connects with Thornton’s jaw before he can draw the breath to say anything further. Thornton stumbles with the impact into a nearby table. The entire lab dissolves in commotion. Henry feels Victor’s arms wrap around him from behind, trying to restrain him, but he shrugs him off and lunges at Thornton, grasping him by the hair. He doesn’t fully realize that he means to slam the man’s head against the hard stone top of the work table until Victor appears in front of him, inserting himself between the two of them, and takes desperate hold of Henry’s arm.

“Henry, Henry, you must stop. You _must._ ”

Henry’s body wants to finish the motion it has started; it feels nearly independent of him. His fingers twist into Thornton’s hair more tightly and close into a fist.

Thornton cries out, his voice strangled. His arms flail wildly, but Henry has him off-balance, and he isn’t able to land any kind of real blow. “Let go of me, you fucking lunatic! You belong in a bloody asylum!”

“Henry!” Victor is close enough now that Henry can see nothing but him. “Stop. We’ll make more. I’ll help you make more. _Henry._ ”

Henry finally hears Victor’s words, rather than merely his voice, and now his rage is gone. What takes its place is a dull, dark loathing — for himself, for Thornton, for this place, for this world. Victor’s eyes, staring hard into his, are wide and blue and filled with panic. He was just pleading with Henry not to kill someone over some broken _slides._ Henry releases his grip. He looks down at the shattered slides on the floor, dirty pieces of glass that mean nothing.

He turns away from Victor. He can’t stand the thought of being seen like this, being seen by anyone, ever. He walks quickly — almost runs — from the lab, from the building, across campus, and he doesn’t stop until there isn’t anyone else around him, until the only sound he hears is that of his own shameful breathing.

 

3.

“Where have you been?” Victor asks without looking up from the dissecting tray. “You must see this.”

“What is it?”

“Look. The galvanic cell you constructed —”

Henry steps closer. A tiny heart lies in a tray, beating.

“The cell...isn’t attached.”

“It was.” Henry looks up at him, almost overcome with emotion. “And now it isn’t.”

“And the heart still beats,” Henry murmurs.

Victor clutches the table, as if to steady himself in his excitement. “I expect it to stop at any moment, but the fact that it’s been beating this long…”

“How long?”

Victor looks at the watch lying on the table. “Five minutes...twenty seconds. This is the second attempt. The first lasted six minutes, forty-five seconds.” And as he speaks, the beating of the heart slows to a stop. “That’s to be expected. The rats were killed at the same time, and this one had twenty minutes longer to wait between death and reanimation.” Victor records the time in his notebook.

“My God, Victor.” Henry sinks into a chair beside him. “This is better than we had hoped.”

“And where the hell were you?” The flush of this minor victory seems as if it is already wearing thin, along with Victor’s good humor. “I told you the lab was unoccupied only until seven. I had no choice but to start without you.”

“Unavoidably detained,” Henry says, somewhat absently. If their current methods can reanimate the heart at this voltage for this long... His mind races with the possibilities, with the potential next steps.

“What was unavoidable? Oh, wait, no — allow me to guess. You were in a fight. Another ‘unavoidable’ fight.”

Victor’s acid tone shakes him out of his train of thought. “No. My father...”

“He’s here?” Victor sits back, looks at him in shock.

“God, no. He sent his solicitor. He was lying in wait for me as I left the Therapeutics lecture. He periodically demands a full accounting of my progress here, and of my finances.”

“And?”

“There is no basis for complaint on either account. Of course, there was never any real reason for concern; my father loves having me here. For much of the year, he can conveniently forget that I exist.”

“And now, happily, you can go back to forgetting he exists.” Victor leans over and grasps Henry’s hand almost desperately. “We have much more important matters to occupy our minds, you and I. Do not let the thought of him divert your attention for even a moment.”

“That, my friend, has always been my goal with regard to Lord Jekyll.” Henry stays very still. Victor’s hand on his is warm and smooth and stained with blood. “A moment’s thought spent on that man is a moment’s thought entirely wasted.”

“Good man.” Victor pats his hand and stands. “I don’t care if he sends every blasted solicitor in the country to accost you. I need you here. This mustn’t happen again.”

As is so often the case, factions are at war inside Henry’s heart. _I need you here. This mustn’t happen again._ Victor’s unassailable sense of entitlement rankles while simultaneously warming him from within. _How dare you tell me what to do. Never stop caring enough to tell me what to do._

“As you say,” Henry replies, coolly enough to give Victor slight pause. Henry savors his own minor victory and leaves it for Victor to clean up the mess before the next class convenes.

 

4\. 

Henry remembers little of the fight itself. A dense fog has descended over his memory, allowing him only glimpses of the scene and snatches of sensation: rain hitting his face, blurring his vision, the taste of blood in his mouth, the sharp pain of knuckles hitting bone. And rage…such monumental rage, like a living, breathing animal with its claws sunk in his heart. But whenever he tries to take hold of a detail and place it in its context, it slips from between his fingers and leaves him with nothing.

“But how did it start? That’s what they’ll want to know.” Victor asks. They are in the infirmary. Driving rain still thrashes against the windows mercilessly. Henry sits, shivering and soaked to the bone, on the edge of a cot, and Victor is in a chair next to him. Victor has curtly dismissed the nurse and is tending to Henry himself. Henry’s knuckles sting with antiseptic. “Surely it was Bradley provoking you.”

“That’s just it. I can’t remember.” Henry grasps the front of Victor’s shirt with his free hand. “Victor, how is that possible? What’s wrong with me?”

Victor puts down the bottle of antiseptic, stands and takes Henry by the shoulders. “There is nothing wrong with you. Look at me.” He leans down until his face is level with Henry’s. “You’re tormented here on a daily basis. A weaker man would have reached his limit long ago.”

“Have I gone mad, then?”

“No.” Victor says, taking Henry’s face in his hands, trying to force him to look him in the eye. “No. Your sane mind is making its best effort to withstand an utterly insane set of circumstances.”

Victor releases him and straightens, scanning the room until he sees a stack of folded blankets. He brings one over and wraps it around Henry’s shoulders. “You mustn’t give in to thinking that way. It’s an unjust world indeed when exceptional minds like ours are the ones considered mad, while sadistic simpletons like Bradley are thought respectable.”

He reaches for the bottle of antiseptic and starts to clean a cut above Henry’s eye. The stinging pain of it feels a thousand times more real than the events that led to it being there.

“I’ll be dismissed from school,” Henry says. He hasn’t even dared think these words until now.

Victor turns his attention to what feels like a deep cut on Henry’s scalp. As Victor’s fingers prod, Henry has a brief flash of memory. He was thrown against a brick wall. “Doubtful, but possible. We’ll cross that bridge _if_ we come to it,” Victor says, his fingers moving gently through Henry’s hair. “This will require stitches.”

Henry nods but cannot speak. _Can’t you see?_ He wants to ask, to scream. _“We” will no longer exist. Just each of us, entirely alone._

Victor calls for the nurse to bring him what he needs to stitch up Henry’s scalp. Tears run down Henry’s face, and Victor, Henry thinks, is kind enough to pretend not to notice.

 

5\. 

Henry and Victor lie side by side on the floor, facing each other. Henry’s bags are packed and occupy one corner of the room. In the morning, he will leave Cambridge and never return.

“Tell me what he said to you, Henry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He will never tell Victor, of course. Not Victor, not anyone — not even the disciplinary committee that ultimately had no choice but to dismiss him permanently. The fundamental truth of Henry’s existence that Professor Quenton had so rightly guessed and spat at him with such contempt, the fact that it was the sound of Victor’s name being spoken by that vile man that had sent Henry into a near-murderous rage — these things must remain his and his alone, always.

Victor, however, never hides an emotion or anything else from Henry. He has no reason to, and doing so would probably never occur to him. His eyes are wet with tears. Henry knows it is because Victor will now be alone here in this awful, hostile place, alone with his work — their work — and he will miss Henry terribly in his own way. 

“It does matter, Henry. I can’t understand you sometimes.”

“It’s done. It’s over. It would have happened eventually for some other reason. My days here were always numbered.”

Victor has no answer. He is quiet for several seconds, his eyes never leaving Henry’s. “What will I do?” he whispers. “What will you do?”

“You’ll stay here and continue to show these imbeciles what brilliance is. And I…” Henry has been trying not to think about what his future holds. “I’ll finish my studies elsewhere. Spend some time in India with my mother.”

“India…” Victor swallows hard and takes a deep and shuddering breath. “You’ll come back.”

“Yes. England is my home, for better or for worse.” Henry allows his eyes to close. He’s exhausted, and seeing Victor this way is too much for him to bear. He wants to take him in his arms and hold him until morning. And what would happen if he tried? It might end their friendship forever, and then Henry truly would have nothing left.

“No.” Henry feels Victor’s hand close around his. “You’ll come back to _me._ We still have so much work to do.”

 _I’ll do anything you ever ask of me. I’m yours._ He grasps Victor’s hand tightly, memorizing the feel of his skin, his bones. “Yes,” he says, giving the only answer he can.

Henry watches as Victor’s eyes eventually fall closed, as his breathing grows slow and even, as he’s watched him a hundred times before. He closes his own eyes. Victor’s hand is still loosely holding his, even now, and Henry allows himself to imagine that this moment is something other than what it truly is, and this fantasy, this lie, lulls him to sleep.


End file.
